


it's not your hands searching slow in the dark

by lucifucker



Series: maybe we'll get forty years together [3]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Boys In Love, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia is Bad at Communicating, Hurt/Comfort, In a sense, M/M, Miscommunication, Reconciliation, Scenting, Touch-Starved Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, but just a taste, combo game/book/show canon, no betas we die like jorund, really - Freeform, so glad thats an established tag, the hardcore porn is gonna come along later, theres some geralt lambert eskel sibling bonding come i s2g im working on it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-15
Updated: 2020-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:42:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23159497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucifucker/pseuds/lucifucker
Summary: It’s made more difficult, Geralt thinks, by the fact that they had already moved past this, this distance between them, this lack of touch.--In the aftermath of half a year apart, and though they have gone much longer in the past, things are harder than they ought to be.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii/Renfri (implied)
Series: maybe we'll get forty years together [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1619125
Comments: 18
Kudos: 404





	it's not your hands searching slow in the dark

In the aftermath of half a year apart, and though they have gone much longer in the past, things are harder than they ought to be. The months alone have left their mark on Geralt, and he finds it harder now than ever before to speak his mind, to communicate his feelings, and more than that, he has no desire to make matters worse between them. Jaskier is, as promised, still angry, and in the weeks following their reunion he is tempestuous, flighty and unpredictable in his affections. Geralt leaves him be, lets him pick and choose when to touch him despite the gnawing feeling in his chest that says this cannot be fixed. Some nights, Jaskier curls up beside him and pulls Geralt’s arms around him. Some nights he sleeps as far away as he can and Geralt feels his absence deeply, gutturally. 

He realized less than a week into his solitude how much he missed Jaskier’s casual intimacy, missed the fingers twining with his own as they walked through bustling markets, the press of lips against his brow as he meditated in the evenings, the weight of Jaskier’s body behind him as they slept. But this, this distance between them, feels different, somehow worse, because Jaskier is here, here and real and remembering everything and Geralt still feels alone. 

They have talked so much Geralt thinks if he speaks another word he will waste away, so he tries to make up for it in other ways. He plans their routes more carefully, takes them on main roads to get to more towns, more inns, more comfortable beds and hot baths for Jaskier to soothe his human body in. When he takes contracts, harder to come by on main roads but still plenty enough to keep them fed and housed, he no longer tries to keep Jaskier from tagging along, simply shows him a safe place to watch from afar as he battles drowners and kikimore alike across the expanse of No Man’s Land. 

When he’s injured, when claws sink into him and teeth rend his flesh, he does his best to hide it away, made easier by the stinging fact that Jaskier no longer seeks to fuck him, keeps what few touches and kisses they share chaste and swift. Before they started this, this beautiful thing Geralt ruined, he would go weeks, months without anyone laying eyes on his body, and now he employs the same practices he did then. Wounds go untended until they scar beneath his armor, potions wreak havoc on his system unchecked by cornflower eyes. He cannot upset what delicate balance they have left, cannot allow Jaskier’s guilt to force him to touch Geralt when he has no wish to. 

_I will never, never leave you _, Jaskier had said, but it feels in some ways as though he has left all the same. He wants to apologize again, wants to fall to his knees and beg Jaskier’s forgiveness, but even this, this trespass, he knows in his heart will be too much to ask.__

____

____

He has made his mistake and now he must live with it, even if it destroys him. 

—

Jaskier smiles as he weaves moleyarrow into Roach’s mane, humming absently to himself some long-forgotten tune of yore. Something warm bubbles in Geralt’s chest at the sight. Sunlight drifts through the trees and alights on Jaskier’s shaggy chestnut hair, and from here Geralt can smell the dandelions. 

“What do you think?” He asks, softly as Geralt deposits wood by the hastily constructed pit they’ve made, and Geralt glances up, longing to taste smile. 

“Fit for a ball.” He replies, and Jaskier offers him a sly grin. Geralt steps over and begins searching the saddlebags for salt and their arms brush, the warmth of Jaskier’s skin seeping into him instantly, thawing his core for but a moment. 

“Isn’t she just?” Jaskier says, softly, but he’s not looking at Roach, he’s looking at Geralt, and when Geralt looks at him there’s something odd in his eye. It takes him a moment to recognize it as sorrow. 

“Jaskier.” He murmurs, chest clenching, fights the urge to reach out and touch. The bard seems to snap from some daze, blinks twice and pushes up on his toes to peck Geralt’s cheek before he turns on his heel and heads off in search of more flowers. 

Geralt presses the tips of his fingers to the tingling warmth his lips left and closes his eyes. Savoring it. 

His nose twitches as something foul hits his nostrils, drifting on the light breeze that filters through the forest and when he focuses in he realizes it’s the stench of Jaskier’s fear. The warmth fades back to ice. Undvik seeps back into his chest. 

—

It’s made more difficult, Geralt thinks, by the fact that they had already moved past this, this distance between them, this lack of touch. 

It’s been ten years since they started this, and in that time they’ve evolved quite a bit from their rocky beginnings, but Geralt is not as young as Jaskier, and his memory is not a selective thing. 

For months he had flinched and turned away in the face of Jaskier’s easy, loving touch, unused to this kind of casual intimacy outside the walls of Kaer Morhen. It was one thing for a witcher to embrace another witcher, for Lambert to throw an arm around his shoulder, for Eskel to lean against him after a long hard hunt. It was another entirely for Jaskier to wash his hair with careful fingers, for Jaskier to press tender kisses to his knuckles after bandaging them. 

He had bedded many whores and spent nights with many men, and the few who had done so him without fear or disgust had lived but a few scant days after meeting him, destined to be ripped away and their warmth with them. Their time with him had been, in terms of his lifetime, mere moments, and yet he had clung to the memory of their touch for years, after Blaviken, after Arinbjorn.[1]

But Jaskier was different. He never left, he never faltered, he never died a fool, or at least, he hasn’t yet. Jaskier had found him, bitter and broken as he was, and loved him just the same. Jaskier saw his 

The first time they fucked, Geralt had done what he did customarily when fucking humans, and simply laid back, keeping his hands to himself. He was given barely a second to make an attempt at pushing down the cold, lonely feeling rising in his gut before Jaskier had plastered himself across his chest, arms curling easily around his sides, nose pressing firmly into his collarbone. 

“Pull up the covers would you, darling?” Stunned into silence, Geralt mechanically grabbed the furs and slid them up over their bodies, careful not to jostle Jaskier from his sprawl across his torso. Jaskier hummed appreciatively, a sound that reverberated through Geralt as he snuggled closer, hooking a leg up over the witcher’s hips. 

Instinct told him to rest his hands on Jaskier’s shoulder, his thigh, light touches so as not to scare him off, and Jaskier rubbed his face against Geralt’s throat and huffed against his skin. 

“If you can suck my cock you can damn well hold me, you great lout.” He mumbled grouchily, and Geralt choked on air and did as he was told, wrapped his arms around Jaskier and cradled him against his chest as he’d only done twice before. Jaskiers fingertips stroked across his ribcage, over the knotted scar on his side, the pitted ones on his chest. When he spoke again, his voice was softer, his words whispered close for only Geralt to hear. “You _can _, you know.” He breathed, reached up to cup Geralt’s hand around his waist with his own, warm and sure. Geralt found that there were no words for the combination of panic and contentment that warred in his stomach, so instead he settled for a muttered;__

____

____

“Alright.” Jaskier kissed him sweetly, fingers dancing over his cheek. 

“Alright.” 

—

He buys Jaskier a new lute. This makes two that have been destroyed since they began traveling together. Geralt would like to say it’s because he feels responsible, but that would be a lie. He buys it in the hope it will make Jaskier smile again. 

It’s lovely, even with his rudimentary knowledge of fashion and design he knows that. Carved of rich mahogany with inlays of gold leaf tracing vines and leaves over its neck and base, its simple beauty is enrapturing. He pays with a silver ring he found hidden away on a reef in Skellige and a promise to speak to a pesky godling stealing local sheep. 

That night, overwhelmed with anxious anticipation feeling too big for his skin, he pulls it out of his bag, still wrapped in the pelt the merchant had packaged it in for him, and kneels beside Jaskier where he’s seated by the fire. The bard looks up from the notebook he’s been scribbling in and his eyes widen briefly before—

That. There it is. Eyes alighting with curious joy, lips parting in a wide, delighted smile, Jaskier drops the pen and paper and turns to face him. 

“What’s this, darling?” He asks, barely restrained excitement thrumming in his words, and Geralt fails to suppress a smile of his own. Wordlessly, so as to avoid saying something stupid, he passes the bundle to Jaskies.Carefully with strong musician’s hands he pulls it into his lap and begins to undo the bindings holding the pelt together. It falls away and a hushed gasp slips from Jaskier’s lips as the instrument comes into view, firelight dancing over its shining trim. “ _Oh _, Geralt, you didn’t.” He coos, turning it over reverently between calloused fingers.__

____

____

“Not much of a bard without an instrument.” Geralt murmurs, watching contentedly as Jskier begins to press the frets, tries a few simple chords which ring out clear and bright in the quiet of the forest. The bard’s eyes flicker closed for a moment as he drinks in the sound and then flick back open to meet Geralt’s, dewy and wide and full of wonder. 

“Geralt,” He whispers, and suddenly they’re close, so close, like they haven’t been in weeks, and Jaskier is putting the lute aside, is sliding into Geralt’s lap and wrapping his arms tight around the witcher’s neck. Geralt flounders, shocked into stillness for a moment before his brain catches up and he can rest his hands on Jaskier’s hips, unsure of how to respond but unwilling to give up the opportunity to touch. “Thank you.” Jaskier breathes against his ear, and Geralt suppresses a shudder, keels forward and presses his face into the crook of Jaskier’s neck and—

It hits him like a blow to the chest, the fear that rises off Jaskier, makes his breath hitch when it hits his sinuses, and he can’t help the flinch that flashes through his body when he registers it. It spikes, when he moves, fingers tightening for a fraction of a second in Jaskier’s doublet. 

Carefully, with all the tenderness and collection he can muster, he lifts Jaskier from his lap and deposits him back on his bedroll, head swimming with that lingering scent. Even here, even now it can happen. 

Jaskier looks at him, his face caught between hurt and worry for a moment before he nods sharply and picks the lute back up. When they ride the next day Jaskier insists on being in front and Geralt is careful not to press too close as he plucks out a mournful tune, something slow and aching and desolate. 

Steadfastly, and with great effort, Geralt ignores the sinking feeling in his gut and rides on.

—

“Did you do it, again?” Jaskier asks one night, tracing his fingertips over the decades-old scars that lattice Geralt’s arms. The fire crackles and spits and there’s no accusation in Jaskier’s voice but Geralt feels it just the same. 

“No.” He shakes his head, keeps his gaze locked on the flames, fights the urge to reach out, to pull the bard closer. “I remembered.” Absolutely not. Never that. Jaskier nods. 

“Did you…” He seems at a loss for words, and Geralt closes his eyes, listens to the crickets chirping in the underbrush and the wind fluttering the trees. “Did you do…anything else?” Geralt knows what he’s asking, and he fights down the bone-deep desire to lie, to spare himself the look in Jaskier’s eyes when he tells him the truth. 

“Yes.” He manages, and feels the loss of Jaskier’s warmth against him like a missing limb when the bard sits up and crosses his legs, looks into the fire with a tense line running through his jaw. 

“Tell me.” He demands, so Geralt does. He tells him about hoards of necrophages kept at bay with Igni alone, of days on days on days with no food, no water, no rest because what reason was there to rest when there was no reason to live? 

When he speaks of Undvik, of the frigid waters and the way his muscles had screamed for mercy, the way his fingers had numbed and gone blue before he reached those icy shores only to collapse in a long-empty hut and sleep in his frozen armor, that tenseness overtakes Jaskier. 

“Why—“ He’s struggling to speak, and Geralt has come to understand in these past weeks that this is what happens when Jaskier’s anger overwhelms him. “ _Why _.” Geralt shakes his head.__

____

____

“I don’t know.” He replies honestly, and the bard presses his forehead against Geralt’s shoulder. Geralt allows himself the indulgence of nosing into his hair, and the smell hits him again, faint this time, but still easy to recognize. He’s becoming familiar with it. 

The thought wrenches at something deep inside him and he allows himself to kiss the top of that tousled head before he forces himself to pull away and mechanically begin to brush down Roach.

Jaskier doesn’t pull their bedrolls together, that night, and Geralt falls asleep staring at his back across the fire and wondering if lying would have been the right thing to do. 

—

Geralt is an expert in the healing process of wounds. His body has been torn open and sealed back up more times in his long years of life than he can remember to count. He knows about scabbing and scarring, about knotted skin and ruined flesh made whole once more, knows what potions to drink and what salves to apply, what herbs and ingredients take away the pain. 

But he has no experience, none, with _this _.__

____

____

He wants to mend it, the broken thing between them. He wants to gather it’s shards in his hands and piece them back together like a clay pot, wants to pull Jaskier close and tell him he will not leave again, he will never leave again. 

But as much as he wants to redeem himself, as much as he longs to make things right, and as much as he loathes to admit it, he is still hurting too. 

He has been gutted, but this wound cannot be healed with a poultice and a night in an inn. There is a rift between them that Geralt put there and none of Vesemir’s training can tell him how to fix it. 

—

Novigrad is always difficult for Geralt, the bustle and commotion of the city is loud, chaotic, puts him on edge as he struggles with the near constant sensory overload, but it does bring back some of Jaskier’s old self. He grins with a carefree joy that Geralt hasn’t seen in weeks when they step inside the Rosemary and Thyme, embraces Triss and Priscilla with an ease he hasn’t had around Geralt with since that first night in the forest. They chitter and talk and giggle together while Geralt seeks out Haitori to have his swords sharpened, steadfastly ignoring the pain in his gut at how _simple _it is for them.__

____

____

When he returns from checking the notice boards, feeling too large and bulky, like he doesn’t fit in his skin, Jaskier spares him a wayward glance and says;

“I’ll be performing tonight. Priscilla’s first act dropped out.” Geralt nods, unsure if this is an invitation to watch him play or a subtle request for space. 

“There’s, uh—“ He swallows, thickly, eyes tracking Priscilla’s hands as she shuffles her Gwent deck and begins to lay it out on the table between them. “Ghouls. At the Vengelbud’s estate.” 

“Good luck.” Jaskier says, barely looking up from the cards, and something deep within Geralt crumples. He makes his way to their room and lights a fire in the hearth, kneels on the floor meditates as best he can with the bustle of the tavern beneath him. 

He can’t help but slip back downstairs when he hears Jaskier’s voice drifting up from below. Hidden in the throngs of people, he watches as his bard strums his lute and sings, silken voice enrapturing the crowd and the witcher alike. For a moment, just a moment, as Jaskier’s words wash over him, he can pretend everything is fine, everything is as it should be. 

He watches, silent and still, until the set ends, watches Jaskier bow and grin and accept the praise and coin tossed his way, watches him stomp giddily off the stage and throw himself into Priscilla’s waiting arms, press a kiss to Triss’ grinning cheek. Something rises within him at the sight, some sick, nauseous feeling that turns his stomach and dries his mouth. 

And then, suddenly, heart-stoppingly, Jaskier’s eyes meet his across the tavern, hands still linked with Priscillas. Geralt knows what he sees, there, knows what his traitorous face betrays of the gut wrenching hurt that coils inside him, knows he sees the way Geralt’s gaze tracks the movements of his hands, the easy way he touches her. 

Heart skipping in his chest, head pounding awful and painful and harsh, he turns on his heel and all but runs up the stairs, straps his swords to his back and throws his pouch over his shoulder and is back in the tavern and out the door before he can fully register what he’s doing. He hears someone calling his name, maybe it’s Jaskier, maybe it’s Triss, but he can’t stop, doesn’t stop until he’s outside the city limits.

He falls to his knees in the wheat fields and clutches his chest, willing his slow heart to stop palpitating but unable to make it so. 

—

He doesn’t know how long he sits there, barely breathing, unable to focus his gaze, but it’s long enough that by the time he manages to shakily stand the sun has set behind the horizon. Mechanically, with leaden feet and absent mind, he searches for the ghouls nest.

It’s easy enough to find with the stench of rotting corpses to lead his way. He downs two vials of black blood, another of thunderbolt, longing for the fire it’ll bleed through his veins to distract him from the ache of his shattered heart. He’s so engrossed in spreading oil on his sword he doesn’t hear the footsteps behind him until it’s too late. 

“This isn’t fair.” Jaskier’s voice is hard and rough around the edges and he’s standing close, too close to for Geralt to ignore the hummingbird beat of his heart, the pump of his pulse, too close for his body, thrumming with potions, to resist the urge to reach out. “It’s not fair for you to be angry at me for this.” He stands, head swimming, senses overloaded and body twitching for a fight, and turns to meet Jaskier’s fiery eyes. 

“I’m not—“ He grits, words jumbling in his mouth as confusion seeps through the fog in his mind, skin too tight, chest too large. “I’m not _angry _, I’m—I—“__

____

____

“I’m allowed to have _friends _, Geralt.” Jaskier spits, like acid, like the poison in his veins, and Geralt can’t stop the way his body tenses at the sound, the growl that bubbles out of his chest because that’s not what’s wrong. And that’s when he smells it.__

____

____

Awful, stinging, like burnt hair and alcoholtest, it overwhelms him, makes him jerk away from Jaskier. The anger doesn’t fade from Jaskier’s face as he does, nor does he allow Geralt to go far, striding forward even as Geralt stumbles back, and Geralt forces himself to turn away, to bolt toward the hole. 

He’s fine. He’s fine. He’ll be fine, if he can just get away from that smell, that awful, acrid scent that burns his sinuses and churns his stomach. Unthinking, unable to stop, he throws himself into the pit and lets the violence take him, ignores Jaskier’s shouts of his name as body after body tumbles to the ground beneath Fate’s blade, as black blood fills the hole and splatters his face. 

He doesn’t know how long it takes. There are so many, more than he can count with his brain and body at war as they are. They tear at his flesh and bite at his throat but his blood has been poisoned and they are wounded by the mere taste of him. He bleeds, and bleeds, and struggles beneath their weight, but he does not stop. He does not slow. 

In the end he’s panting, barely able to breathe as he wrenches his blade through the last of them, its body cleaving in two and falling to the ground with a final thump. Jaskier, mercifully, waits until he heaves himself onto the clean, wet grass, chest heaving, body floating below him as he stands, to storm toward him. 

“What the _fuck was that? _” Jaskier’s fury is an all-encompassing thing, and Geralt can’t help but flinch as he speaks, eyes snapping shut as his instincts tell him to brace for a blow he knows will not come. After a beat he catches himself and opens them, and Jaskier is peering at him curiously, anger fading, confusion bleeding across his handsome features which pierces the very core of Geralts icebound heart. When he speaks again, his voice is softer, warmer, a special tone he reserves for Geralt and Geralt alone and he wishes he could wrap himself in it. “Geralt?”__

____

____

“That—that smell.” He mangoes to grit, fingers clenching and unclenching furiously around Fate’s hilt. “You—you only smelled—just once, before—this, you smelled like that. Do you remember?” 

“Oh,” Jaskier breathes, his ire melting away to make room for concern in a matter of seconds. He surges forward, reaches out and cups Geralt's cheeks with gentle fingers as tears spring to those cornflower eyes. “Oh, Geralt, it wasn’t like that.” Geralt leans greedily into the touch, savors it as he does all of Jaskier’s touches, now, as though perhaps this will be the last. 

"You stopped— _touching _me, Jaskier.” He’s choking on each syllable, forcing them through unwilling lips. "You were the only one to--to touch me, without--without that _smell _and—“ He’s losing track of time, of space, looking down at himself in Jaskier’s hands as though he has left his body entirely, but he must finish, he mustn’t stop now, not when Jaskier’s looking at him like that. “You were never—afraid, before, you were _never afraid of me _—and now I’ve—“ He gasps for air but no oxygen comes, no reprieve from the tight thing that’s constricting his chest. “I ruined— _everything _, I—“________

_____ _

_____ _

Jaskier cuts him off with his lips against Geralts, twines his fingers carefully into the witcher’s hair and holds him safe and steady and secure. Geralt’s mind blanks as he loses himself in the feeling of Jaskier against him, in the sweet press of his lips and and the unsullied scent of him. They apart but the world has already narrowed down to the places where they’re touching, to Jaskier’s nose nudging his cheek, Jaskier’s lips against his temple. 

“ _Breathe _.” That voice orders, soft, commanding, and Geralt squeezes his eyes shut and forces air into his spasming lungs, echoes of a night much like this one when the potions had taken over his senses flitting across his mind. Jaskiers hands smooth over his back, deftly loosen the straps on his armor so they can slip up underneath, soothe across his feverish skin. Geralt doesn’t whimper but it’s a near thing.__

____

____

“Darling,” Jaskier breathes out, a rush of air between them, “I didn’t want to push, I thought—“ He breaks off, closes his eyes, shakes his head. "I shouldn't have. I shouldn't have assumed. Oh, my love." His hands are steady, his touch is tender. Geralt wants to drown in it. "I never dreamed that you had stopped because you thought I wanted you to." He shakes his head, draws Geralt impossibly closer, heedless of the blood and the gore and the stench of death that follows him wherever he goes. “I’m not afraid of you, Geralt.” He whispers into the space between them, scant as it is. “What you smelled was more a fear of _losing _you.”__

____

____

“ _Why _.” Geralt rasps, addled by Jaskier’s touch, lost in his unwavering attention. “ _Why _would you think—“____

_____ _

_____ _

“It wasn’t as long for me as it was for you.” He interjects. “Not really. It took me three weeks after Yennefer brought me back to find you, and the time between…” Jaw working, consternation written across his features, Jaskier shakes his head. “It felt like a long, hazy...vision. But you lived every moment of it, clear as day. I thought, perhaps, the months alone…” He swallows, eyes fixed on Geralt’s jaw. “You were so—broken, when I found you, and I thought perhaps something had…changed, perhaps you wanted… _needed _space. You used to simply reach for affection when you needed it, I didn’t think—“ He pauses, face growing confused for a moment, the expression of one remembering a dream. Slowly, realization beginning to dawn, he shakes his head. “But…you didn’t. Not always.”__

____

____

Not always. Flashes of decade-old memories flash through Geralt’s mind. Watching the bard change and forcing down the urge to reach out and feel that porcelain skin. Shivering when Jaskier’s hands slid up his sides after hours of riding. Waking from a nightmare and rolling out of bed and into quen without a thought only for Jaskier to sink to the ground with him and pull him close all the same. 

“ _Dandelion _.” His voice is a rasp, a whisper. The adrenaline is fading from his body, the potions are wearing off. He can feel his body beginning to return to normal, wounds closing up and blood working itself clean, and Fate clatters to the ground amidst the carnage beneath them as he finds the use of his arms and crushes Jaskier to his chest. He seeks out those lips and takes them, kisses Jaskier deep and hard and needy like he’s wanted to for so long, shards of ice breaking away from his slow heart when Jaskier arches into his touch, all but climbs up his body, when Geralt’s forced to brace an arm beneath him so his legs can encircle the witcher’s waist.__

____

____

“Gods, _Geralt _—“ Jaskier rasps, Geralt burrs lowly. There's more than fraught feelings and tears, now, there's a _heat _rising between them. He inhales deep and there is a scent coming off Jaskier, rolling off him in waves, but this time it’s sweet and cloying, one of sweat and musk. Geralt thinks he could get drunk on this alone as Jaskier clutches desperately at his face, claims his mouth again and makes a choked noise when Geralt’s hands find his thighs and squeeze.____

_____ _

_____ _

“I need _you _.” Geralt growls into that kiss, an animal sound that resonates from deep in his chest. Jaskier shivers, exhales a hot breath into his mouth that sets something ablaze within him.__

____

____

“Roach.” The bard manages to grunt, hips shifting against Geralt’s, lithe body wrapped iron tight around him. “Inn.” Somehow, barely able to form coherent thought, Geralt pulls back and whistles sharply, and a few seconds later hoofbeats sound across the wheat fields. 

Wordlessly, unable to force himself to let go, Geralt drags himself up into the saddle and Jaskier with him, deposits the bard in front of him and presses close against his back, burying his face in the crook of his neck to breathe in more of the intoxicating desire seeping out of him. Jaskier grabs the reins and urges Roach forward and they’re off, galloping at a frenzy back toward the Southern Gate. 

—

The way back to the room is a blur of Jaskier pressed against his side and people getting in the way. He pushes through without preamble, Jaskier offering the occasional apology or condolence as drinks are sloshed and patrons shouldered out of the way, but in all honesty he’s not doing much better. It’s with a single minded focus that they head up the stairs, and the moment the door is shut the journey is forgotten.

“Off.” Jaskier growls, pulls feverishly at the straps of the armor and Geralt shifts obligingly into his demanding prods and pokes. “ _Off _.” The need to be skin against skin is overwhelming, and the moment the last piece falls to the floor he’s being shoved toward the bed as Jaskier shucks his doublet and trousers.__

____

____

He collapses back and Jaskier crawls on top of him, thighs bracketing Geralt’s waist, erection pressed against his hip through his smallclothes. Growling, the wolf within him howling its victory, he yanks them down and grabs at Jaskier’s ass, eliciting a groan from the man above him as the cloth comes free, tearing under Geralt’s hands. 

Jaskier keels forward and claims Geralt’s lips in a bruising kiss, mouths down his jaw to his throat and bites down _hard _. Geralt’s back arches and a choked sound rises in his chest as Jaskier’s now freed cock rubs against his own. It is both too much and can never be enough and Geralt shudders with it.__

____

____

“Oil.” He manages to grunt, but can’t seem to let go of Jaskier’s ass long enough to go looking for it, drags the bard’s lithe body closer and farther up his chest until he can get his mouth on Jaskier’s cock. Jaskier’s breath hitches and those calloused fingers sink into his hair, stroke over his scalp. 

“ _Geralt _.” He breathes, and allows the witcher a few moments to savor the taste of him on his tongue before he’s gently pulling out and going for their bags, for the oil that’s been sitting unused in the bottom of Geralt’s pack.__

____

____

He returns, straddling Geralt again with practiced ease and Geralt smooths his hands up Jaskier’s thighs, cups his hips, traces his fingers over the divots between his ribs. He is burning, he is flaming, he is so hot he could melt and he wants more. 

“Which way?” Jaskier asks against his lips, and Geralt grunts and arches against him. 

“Fuck me.” He growls, and Jaskier groans into his mouth and nods, slips down his body until he can situate himself between Geralt’s spread legs. Slicking his fingers liberally, he reaches down and begins to open Geralt up slowly, takes his time working in the first finger and lets it pull and stretch before he begins to tease the second against Geralt’s rim. “Jaskier.” He hisses, demanding, and the bard clicks his tongue and kisses Geralt’s cheek. 

“Not gonna hurt you.” He chides, and pushes the second finger fully in. Geralt stiffens, his hands scrabble for purchase on Jaskier’s shoulders as that sweet burn overtakes him. “It’s been a while, you’re so _tight _.”__

____

____

“It’s been _too long _.” Geralt retorts and grinds down against his hand, defiantly forcing Jaskier’s fingers deeper. Jaskier lets out a sound not unlike a growl and curls his digits, brushing that spot deep inside Geralt that makes him choke on air and tip his head back, makes him go pliant and limp in Jaskier’s arms, and the bard grins.__

____

____

“There we go.” His voice is smooth and sweet as honey, its dripping down Geralt’s forehead, it’s sinking into his bones. Jaskier catches his lips again, kisses him long and slow, like they’ve got nowhere to be. Like they’ve got all the time in the world. 

“Jask—Jask, _please _, I _need _—“ He breaks off with a grunt as Jaskier’s fingers twist inside him again, and the bard soothes his lips over Geralt’s cheek, his temple.____

_____ _

_____ _

“Tell me.” He implores, noses along his jaw as though he can’t get enough of Geralt’s skin, of the smell of him. His breath is hot against Geralt’s ear, his voice is low, pleading. “Tell me, darling.” 

“I need to _feel _you.” He wraps his legs around Jaskier’s hips in an effort to draw him in, and Jaskier huffs a wanton breath and obliges, draws his fingers out and coats himself with slick and then he’s pressing into Geralt.__

____

____

After months of losing time Geralt suddenly finds himself aware of each and every passing second. Jaskier is slow and steady and so close, and he’s so full of him, and those miles of clear alabaster skin are all he can see. They cling to each other, breathing in tandem, unwilling to allow anything, even air to come between them. It’s impossible to tell where one kiss ends and another begins, nor, for that matter, where they do. 

As their movements become more erratic Jaskier pulls back just enough, just enough to meet Geralt’s eyes, to lay that gaze on him, brighter than the sun. He smells like cinnamon and woodsmoke and Geralt, and he looks down at the witcher like he has hung the moon in Jaskier’s sky. 

The icy thing that has grown in Geralt’s chest melts away, lost to the power of that heavy gaze, and he surges up, captures kiss-swollen lips with his own, tips them over until he’s straddling Jaskier’s trim waist, sinking down on his length with a choked groan to match the one that works its way out of the bard. 

“I love you.” His voice is like gravel over stone but Jaskier’s eyes begin to glisten all the same, and Geralt palms his throat, strokes his hair, presses his cheek to Jaskier’s just to feel the warmth of his skin. “ _Dandelion _.” He is overwhelmed in a wholly different way than the vibrating chill that had taken him an hour ago. His body shakes with want, sweat pools at the base of his spine as he fucks himself on Jaskier’s cock. His heart thumps an irregular rhythm in his chest, and when Jaskier works a hand between them and fists his own leaking length, the wolf breaks out and keens through him, a desperate, wanton sound that makes Jaskier stiffen and come beneath him. And he feels it, hot and heavy inside him, and the act alone is enough to push him over the edge a moment later, Jaskier’s fist on his cock, Jaskier’s tongue in his mouth.__

____

____

He spends across Jaskier’s chest, his stomach, painting him in pearly white lines while Jaskier grinds his softening length up into him a few more vengeful times, milking each drop until Geralt is whimpering with overstimulation. 

Somehow, despite the mind flaying orgasm he’s just had, Geralt has the presence of mind not to crush Jackier and falls onto the bed, nestled under his arm, both of them hissing as they come apart. Jaskier rolls onto his side, wraps his arms around Geralt and tangles their legs, kisses him again and again until Geralt regains the use of his body and ducks down to lick his own spend off the bard’s stomach. 

Jaskier cradles his head and whispers soft things, secret things into his hair, petting his shoulders and cheeks, lips ghosting over his crown. 

“ _Oh _, how I’ve missed you,” and__

____

____

“My _darling _, my _love _, you’ve no _idea _,” and______

_____ _

_____ _

“I couldn’t sleep, Geralt, not without you,” and Geralt buries his face in the crook of Jaskier's neck, inhales the sweet scents of fading lust, the summer sun smell of contentment and warmth radiating from Jaskier’s core. 

He loses himself, for a while, in that tenderness, that warmth, the safe and secure cradle of Jaskier’s arms, the scent of warm bread and sweat and contentment. He drifts for a while, face pressed into Jaskier’s chest, hands re-memorizing the curve of his thigh, the line of his hip. His fingers still fit perfectly between the notches of Jaskier’s ribs, his thumb glides along the dip of his spine like it was made to be there. 

“Geralt,” Jaskier pulls him from his reverie and he looks up to find steady blue eyes gazing down at him with a collected expression. “Next time, tell me.” Geralt ducks his head back down and hides his face in Jaskier’s neck, but the bard tugs gently at his hair and forces him to meet his eyes. “Don’t hide from me.” He pleads, and Geralt’s stomach clenches. “Sweetheart, please, don’t hide.” Softly, jaw working as his throat tries to close around a response, Geralt leans forward and rests their foreheads together, bumps Jaskier’s nose with his own. 

“Alright.” The witcher hums, and Jaskier huffs a tiny little laugh and curls his arms around Geralt’s neck, kisses him so gently it steals his breath away. 

“Alright.” The bard echoes, and they slip into silence, the only sounds in the room their mingled breathing, the only light that of the dying fire. 

They’ll be alright.

**Author's Note:**

> 1 The implication here is that Geralt had a short-lived relationship with Jorund, son of Sigin. Jorund is the contact for the Phantom of Eldberg contract in the Witcher 3. Depending on your choices leading up to that quest, he either lives on or is killed in a bar brawl. This series is a complex mesh of the game, book, and show canon timelines, and so in the world where this fic takes place, Geralt chose to go to Eldberg before placing Cerys on the throne of Skellige, and Jorund was killed.


End file.
